


Deserve All That I Am

by Processpending



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Chubby Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Geraskier, If you squint and wait for it to walk around the corner, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:21:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24237226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Processpending/pseuds/Processpending
Summary: Geralt didn't remember Jaskier getting himself stuck in a window as anything more than just another one of his antics, but when an ill timed turn finds Jaskier wedged in a door, Geralt realizes just what pain lies behind his easy smile."When you're just fat, people think you deserve the pain." Caught off guard by the admission, Geralt’s fingers slip from the curve of Jaskier’s belly and just like he expected, Jaskier takes the opportunity to curl back up on his side facing the wall.Companion piece to A Place for You Here, but can be read as a standalone.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 54





	Deserve All That I Am

**Author's Note:**

> BlossomingBranches said "But what if it was a door?" After reading A Place for You Here and off we went bouncing ideas until this happened.

“For this being your living you should quit forgetting it.” Geralt grumbles from behind Jaskier, having been sent back down the stairs when Jaskier realized he’d forgotten his lute, again, at the table. In truth Geralt knew it was easier and faster if he went and got it himself, Jaskier wasn’t quite as spry as he once was.

“It helps keep a roof over your head as well.” Jaskier counters, grateful to finally reach the top of the stairs, their room just ahead. He can feel Geralt’s stony look at his comment but their room is _right there_ and his back and legs are already aching from waddling up the steps. 

“It’s your lute you should be hauling–”

“You’ve ensured I’ve got enough to carry.” Jaskier snaps, turning in their door only to have the motion arrested by his stomach getting wedged into the door jamb. Jaskier tries to reverse the movement and swing his stomach back into the room but there’s no give and the twisting only serves to exacerbate his already aching back. 

“This is your fault.” Jaskier pouts, rubbing the tight sides of his stomach, the pressure of being pressed against the jamb already threatening to be too much after his hearty dinners. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt growls, unamused by his antics. He’d gotten the damn lute like he always did but Jaskier still isn’t moving and the last time Geralt had seen that look was when...Jaskier got himself stuck in a window. “ _Fuck._ ” Geralt breathes, had his bard really gotten _that_ fat. 

Geralt studies the scene before him with new eyes, the little indent the jamb is making on Jaskier’s belly, the one he knows is packed extremely tight as Jaksier had misjudged his girth and knocked it into Geralt leaving the table. As though sensing Geralt’s dawning understanding Jaskier starts with renewed effort to free himself, hefting his belly he only serves to pin the tender underside, letting out a whimper as his stomach settles once more.

Jaskier’s hands move back to his bowed sides, the ache worsening with the new position, his back spasming as he’s now forced his back to push his belly up and out. Jaskier’s head tips back, eyes closed as he tries to take shallow breaths, anything deeper only ratcheting up the pain.

"Geralt." Jaskier turns pleading eyes on his Witcher who always knows how to fix things, who always knows how to soothe him. His legs are startling to tremble, tired from performing most of the night and then carrying him up the stairs, he fears when they will give out, unsure he’ll be able to withstand another biting pain when his belly will inevitably shift again.

Geralt’s words come back to him, _Don't let shame taint what you've worked to achieve_ , but so far all Jaskier had achieved was to get so fat he was stuck in a door. Blue eyes fall closed but not before Geralt sees the tears glazing them as he turns his face into their room, hiding his burning cheeks.

Geralt takes a moment, a moment he knows Jaskier is in pain for but the last thing he wants is to shovel it on, which is all he’s seem to have done so far. “Jask, take a deep breath and then let it out as hard as you can.” Geralt instructs, setting the lute to rest against the hall wall. 

Jaskier nods that he’s heard Geralt’s words and though the inhale is carried on a whimper, he does as Geralt asks. Geralt shoves Jaskier, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his hip, dislodging Jaskier who spins with the momentum, the Witcher’s hands steadying his belly before he can bash it into the opposite door jamb. 

Jaskier mumbles his thanks and is quick to turn and slip into their room, once more leaving Geralt to collect his lute but the Witcher doesn’t say anything as he carefully props it against the table. Jaskier had retreated to bed, curling on his side he faces away from Geralt, still fully clothed but it won’t do.

Geralt rummages in his pack, gathering what he needs before approaching the bed, “Jask, I need to look you over, make sure you aren’t hurt.” The silence threatens a standoff but Jaskier knows Geralt will stand there all night if out of nothing more than sheer stubbornness and so with clumsy movements Jaskier pushes himself to sitting, belly forcing his legs wide as he moves to the edge of the bed. 

Geralt frees him of his doublet, it’s an old one whose sides haven’t been able to meet in months but Jaskier so rarely wore them closed Geralt isn’t sure he’s even noticed. With gentle hands he skims off the snug chemise, frowning at what he reveals, a thick red stripe up Jaskier’s stomach, a sickening colored bruise already blooming. 

Kneeling, Geralt frees Jaskier of his boots and places them to the side, certain as soon as he’s done Jaskier will be retreating into himself once more. With a gentleness few believe Witchers are capable of possessing, Geralt dips his fingers into the salve and begins to gently slather it over the abused spot. 

As the first tears slip down Jaskier’s face Geralt jerks his hand back, fearing he’d caused more pain than he realized but Jaskier’s rasping words tell him it’s a different kind of pain.

“I look pregnant Geralt.” Jaskier whispers. Geralt just raises a questioning eyebrow, tentatively returning to his ministrations. It was true, while there was a soft layer of fat over Jaskier, most of it had settled in his belly, which was high and round, proudly leading him wherever he pointed it.

Jaskier waits until Geralt is nearly finished before explaining. "When you're pregnant people expect you to be in discomfort, but when you're just fat, people think you deserve the pain." Caught off guard by the admission, Geralt’s fingers slip from the curve of Jaskier’s belly and just like he expected, Jaskier takes the opportunity to curl back up on his side facing the wall. 

Geralt stays kneeling for long moments, eyes tracing over Jaskier’s naked back, the shoulders that had broadened as he’d aged, the hips that had widened to support his heavier stomach. All so strong, but under the weight of callous thoughts, they tremble. 

o~O~o

Geralt couldn't get Jaskier's words out of his head, that he thought a big belly meant he deserved the strain in his back and ache in his knees. 

Something had broken in Jaskier that night, though he still sang and flashed his grins; they didn't ring true, it didn't help matters that others seemed to notice and the once lingering gazes of women soon slid elsewhere. 

It didn't take long for Geralt to catch on to just how much pain Jaskier was in, a knuckle dragged across his lower back, a hand braced on the table as he rose, easing the strain on his knees. What bothered Geralt most was wondering how long Jaskier had been in pain and Geralt had brushed the gestures off, letting Jaskier think he was one of the many who believed he deserved the discomfort.

Geralt gets the beginnings of an idea, certain it’s possible if only he were to find the right person, but he knows it will take time and any amount is far too much if Jaskier is in pain. 

“Come here.” Geralt commands one night, a week out from the incident at the inn. They were on the way to the next town and hopefully more coin, but until then it meant bedrolls under the trees and long days of walking. For his part Jaskier hadn’t complained once, had done his best to keep pace, though Geralt had noticed by the afternoon Jaskier was pressing his hands into his back, gait becoming unsteady. 

Jaskier eyes Geralt curiously, wondering why his Witcher insisted on joining him before a tree stump but there’s a look in those golden eyes that sets Jaskier moving, suspicious behavior or no.

“Sit.” Geralt had gotten better with his words over the years, Jaskier learning that verbose for a Witcher was anything that strung more than five words together but Geralt tended to slip back into his growled commands when he was nervous...or uncomfortable.

Still, Jaskier does as asked, clearly Geralt wanted something and he wasn’t comfortable asking for it; Jaskier thought it also didn’t hurt that getting up off the ground was proving to be an embarrassing struggle as of late. Jaskier sits on the tree stump, just this side of too small to be comfortable for him but he doesn’t imagine whatever this is will take long. 

Geralt lowers himself to the fallen tree he’d pushed to rest behind the stump, resting his elbows on his knees he takes a fortifying breath before he grasps Jaskier’s hips, thumbs working deep into either side of his spine. In the last town he’d slipped away to a pleasure house for a few hours, the whore leary when Geralt asked after a massage but much more obliging once he explained he wanted to _learn_ not receive. 

Jaskier stiffens more out of surprise than disgust at Geralt’s touch, relaxing into the sensation as deft thumbs work out a particularly tender spot, hands absently coming up to rub his stomach as he slips into a haze of relief. 

Jaskier tries not to expect it each time they stop, but he’s certain there’s hope in his eyes as he looks around the chosen camping spot. Geralt always manages to make wherever they stop work, though sometimes that means padding the ground with their bedrolls for Jaskier to sit on. 

The inns are easier, Jaskier working up the nerve one night when he’s particularly sore to drag a stool before the bed and raise a jaunty eyebrow. Geralt sees right through the uncertainty there, hates that Jaskier thinks he would brush him off and so he growls, “I didn’t hit my head on my last hunt, Jaskier, I haven’t forgotten.” 

o~O~o

Each town gets Geralt closer to finding someone who can make him what he desires, though he’s yet to find _the_ person that can render them he’s certain he will. 

As Geralt is dragging himself up the stairs, weary from a brutal fight that was more physical exertion than actual wounds, he wonders if this is what Jaskier feels like being dragged around the continent. A body that you know _can_ and _has_ carried you through effortlessly, now weighed and aching. 

The thoughts still heavy in Geralt’s mind when he opens the door to their room to find Jaskier waiting, somehow he always knows when Geralt will return from a hunt, the bath fresh with curls of inviting steam. Blue eyes search him for blood or wounds as he moves towards him, an endless stream of questions covering his concern at what he’ll find hiding beneath the armor.

Geralt’s sure Jaskier notices, he would have to if Geralt is, but he stands where he always does to undo the ties holding his armor together only now his stomach presses into Geralt, nudging him out of Jaskier’s nimble fingers. Geralt holds his ground, feeling the warmth of Jaskier’s belly press into him from different angles as he works his way around until Geralt is freed from his responsibilities and can slip into the bath.

With a soft groan that matches his own, Jaskier settles onto the stool behind the wash tub as Geralt lowers himself into the tub. Geralt’s golden eyes slip closed as Jaskier works the tangles from his hair before washing, the hot water soothing his strained muscles. 

When Jaskier stands, muttering about his oils being out of reach, his belly knocks Geralt’s head forward and loose the realization that a hot bath would soothe Jaskier just as it does him. As quick as the idea forms Geralt is turning it over, looking for a way to make it possible. He barely fits in a tub as it is and can only imagine the hurt on Jaskier’s face as his knees knock against the sides, forced wide by his belly, pressed into an awkward angle that may only serve to increase the pain rather than relieve.

It takes some searching but Geralt heads them in the direction of Oxenfurt much to Jaskier’s confusion. The town is as bustling and loud as it always is but one look at Jaskier taking the jostling and careless elbows without comment stills his own tongue. 

Geralt gets them a room on the outskirts of town, on the cheaper side and little more than a closet with a bed but he doesn’t intend for them to spend much time in it, not if things work out. It’s easy enough to distract Jaskier and slip away, returning not even an hour later with a plan forming to see things through. 

“Usually this is the bit in songs people start protesting as they know some ill is going to befall.” Jaskier comments as he follows Geralt deeper into the woods outside Oxenfurt, the path well worn though no less odd. They’d been in town for a few days and Geralt’s behavior had grown stranger with each passing one. Slipping off only to return a brief time later, stashing odd parcels in the corner, guarded by his pack, that appeared seemingly while they were away. 

As curious as Geralt was, Jaskier didn’t press, whatever he was up to would come to light eventually, besides, Jaskier was hesitant to disrupt Geralt’s near doting nature over the past couple months.Jaskier wasn’t sure what had spurred it, but he was appreciated the relief it brought.

“I’m a Witcher, Jaskier.” Geralt counters and the bard swears he hears a tinge of hurt in the words.

“I’m not saying I believe ill is going to befall me, I’m just noting things for songs later should ill attempt.” Geralt smirks at the words, hoping that they’re close as much further will make this whole idea worthless if the return trip is too arduous. 

It’s a few minutes until the path opens into a small clearing, the structure seeming to have grown up right along with the trees. Jaskier draws to a stop next to Geralt, hands pressed into his lower back, pushing his stomach out further as he surveys the building before them and the familiar smell of scented oils filling the area. 

“Come.” Geralt cuts off Jaskier as he turns, a hopeful glint in his eyes. Geralt had it prearranged, a private room with their largest tub and the woman who ran the bath house assured him _all_ were welcome, there would be no need for him to wait outside. 

She greets them at the door, “Welcome.” 

“Theodora.” Geralt nods and Jaskier’s grin grows impossibly wider at the Witcher’s manners. 

“Your room is all set, please let me know if you require anything else during your visit.” Her tone is melodic and Geralt wonders if she’s managed to keep it, this gentleness, by being so far removed. 

Geralt leads the way, the bathhouse having a simple layout of a large communal basin with a few rooms each fulfilling varying requirements. Jaskier follows along behind Geralt, his waddle more pronounced from the long trek through town and then deep into the surrounding woods, his aching feet begging him to stop moving and sit. 

Geralt stops by a door, a hand on Jaskier’s lower back guiding him through before he shuts it behind them, enjoying watching Jaskier take a pained lap around the room, curiosity drawing him. Taking up most of the room is an overlarge basin set into the floor, the side closest to the door having built in steps to allow the user to walk down rather than slip off one of the sides. There are benches along the same wall as the door, the walkway surrounding the bowl's other three sides too narrow for anything more than walking or perching and letting legs dangle in the water.

It’s to these benches that Jaskier returns, easing himself down; he can’t help the sigh of relief that whooshes out, the steamy warmth from the room enveloping him. 

“Jask?” Geralt asks, confused by Jaskier’s choice of seating yet the large grin he wears as though he’s figured out the most delicious secret.

“I’m proud of you.” Jaskier’s smile grows larger as does Geralt’s confusion. “Doing something for yourself, you’re always a bare essentials and sometimes not even those. I’ve finally worn off on you.” 

Understanding sours in Geralt’s stomach as he rasps, “This is for you, Jaskier.” 

Mirth filled blue eyes darken as they slip from Geralt to the basin and back again, “For...me.” Jaskier tries the words out but they don’t sound right, they don’t quite fit. 

“I thought it might help….” Geralt doesn’t know how to say he thought it would help ease the strain he knows Jaskier’s heavy belly puts on his back, the ache in his knees from long nights of standing or chasing after Geralt. He doesn’t know how to say it without hurting him first, without possibly tainting what was supposed to be a kindness.

Jaskier turns it over for a moment and Geralt counts every one of his heartbeats, listening for when it breaks, but it never comes. “Will you join me?” 

Long years on the road together have stripped them of any qualms against modesty Jaskier had early on and soon their clothes are tangled on the bench and Jaskier is carefully making his way down the stairs, Geralt at his back. The first steps are easy, damped by the steam in the room but the following are lost to the depths and Jaskier’s foot slips off but Geralt’s arm is around his waist, a hand cradling his stomach as he steadies his bard. 

A deep ledge runs around the inside of the bowl, a perfect height to settle on, head supported by the upper rim. Geralt watches as tension he didn’t realize had been tightening Jaskier’s features eases and he gives a soft smile to Geralt. 

o~O~o

Geralt debates giving Jaskier the gifts this morning, the bathhouse had been received far better than Geralt had dared hoped and a selfish part of him thinks to hold onto the parcels a little longer, wait until Jaskier is down again. As quick as he has the thought he dismisses it, they aren’t just about making Jaskier happy, they are meant to help.

“Jaskier.” Geralt calls as soon as Jaskier starts rummaging through his pack, sorting through his clothes. The bard looks over his shoulder to find Geralt standing there unsure, the mysterious packages stacked in his hands. Jaskier straightens, his back grateful and he tries to rub out the ache the position brought. 

“These are for you.” Geralt doesn’t make any motion to hand Jaskier the packages, if anything he holds them closer and Jaskier wonders what’s within that would make his Witcher so nervous. Jaskier intends to give him all the time he needs, wondering if he really wants to know what they contain when Geralt finally extends them towards him.

They’re light but also give under Jaskier’s grasp, two things Jaskeir did not expect but he accepts them easily and moves to set them on the bed, the room so small it can’t fit a table. The first one is a chemise, almost identical to the ones he wears, the embroidery around the collar small blue and yellow flowers. A doublet comes next, sky blue with gold thread accents and pleats sewn into the sides, Jaskier thinks he would be offended if Geralt hadn’t taken such care with picking out clothes in his taste. 

The last package is the largest and Jaskier has a good idea what he’s going to find but he’s unprepared when the trousers he unwraps are far from his normal ones. They’re the same soft material as the doublet, a luscious blue but the waist is modified with extra stays and a thicker fabric that looks like some kind of belt built into the inside of the waistband. Jaskier’s eyes burn, his arms dropping from where they’d been holding up the pants admiringly. 

“I never thought you cruel.” The words are rough as Jaskier eyes what had only moments ago been yet another sweet gesture from Geralt, now just a reminder of his embarrassment. 

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. I only meant to help.” Jaskier could count on one hand with fingers to spare the number of times Geralt had apologized, had uttered those two words with such despair. 

“I’m sorry I’m an embarrassment, I would have gotten new clothes had you asked, you didn’t need to waste your coin.” Jaskier turns, for the first time feeling self conscious at the thin chemise he’d worn to bed, having grown too small to wear out as his lower belly hung out. 

“The coin was not a waste nor are you an embarrassment. I wear armor to protect myself from hurt, why shouldn’t you?” Frustration sharpens Geralt’s words, softening as he admits, “I don’t like seeing you in pain.” Jaskier eyes the clothes, trying to align Geralt’s words with the pile of cloth before him. 

Jaskier hesitantly picks up the chemise, running a finger over the carefully stitched flowers, the needleworker was talented. Keeping his back to Geralt he slips off the one he’s wearing, tossing it to the side before he pulls this one over his head, the fabric cool and soft against the itchy skin of his belly, hiding the stretchmarks that crept over the lower swell. 

Next come his pants, tight as they were he skims them off and adds them to his discarded shirt, willing his hands to quit shaking as he pulls on the reinforced ones only to realize too late it isn’t the usual row of buttons. 

“I don’t…” Jaskier fights the tears that roughen his voice, wondering if his shame knows no bounds. Geralt sits on the edge of the bed, gentle hands turning Jaskier around so he’s standing in the vee of Geralt’s legs as he works at the stays Jaskier has no hope of seeing under his stomach. 

Jaskier’s uncertainty is replaced as Geralt works, the strain on his back easing as it feels like Geralt’s hefted his belly, but Geralt leans back, trepidation and hope in his eyes and Jaskier is surprised to find his stomach still supported, the ache that had been plaguing him for months little more than a memory of discomfort.

“If they’re uncomfortable–” Geralt starts but Jaskier is quick to correct him.

“They’re wonderful. I…” There are too many ways Jaskier wants to finish that sentence, too many things he knows he _should_ finish it with. 

“You don’t deserve to be in pain.” Geralt finishes for him. Jaskier nods, unable to express how grateful he is to Geralt for seeing him.

o~O~o

Geralt watches Jaskier from his shadowed corner of the tavern, his bard’s smile back to the easy, bastard making grin it once was. Tonight he’d chosen to wear the purple set of the specially made pants and matching doublet, Geralt having taken Jaskier to pick out a few more pieces in colors of his own choosing before they left, insisting one set of armor was never enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank for reading! Would love to hear what you think!  
> Comments/kudos/emojis/random outbursts are encouraged and greatly appreciated!


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